Dans mon coeur
by Vanya Heart
Summary: (In my heart) After both the American Revolutionary war, and the French Revolutionary war have come to a close, France writes a letter to England to describe how he felt during those times, and how he feels about England in general.


Dear Arthur;

It was winter, I believe, when that unspeakable war was won, and you were finally defeated. It felt good, for me, defeating you in such a noble (and yet silly) fight; for once, I had beat you – which I don't do often – and this fact gave me great pride.

Yet, I suppose I did not contemplate the devastating effect that defeat would have on your worldly reputation, not to mention the emotional scarring it would leave on you. I have a tendency to do things before thinking too deeply on them. The fact that America was striving to hurt you – not as a country, but as a person – was obscured to me until afterward.

It was when I saw you in the rain that the reality of it all struck me, like spears being plunged through my brain, and my heart. You were crying. Grant it, it was pouring rain, so you could very well put up an argument against that, but hearken:

You were sitting so pitifully upon your muddied knees, in a beautiful state of tragedy that reminded me of something Shakespearean. The hopeless last battle had ended, and America, because his emotions failed him, spared you a gruesome death at the hands of his men. I don't believe you saw me; I stood amongst the crowd of soldiers, a bandage tied across my forehead and rain soaking my hair to my head. Watching you break down so hard before my eyes...it began to wither my soul, and I had the undeniable urge to go to you, but did not due to guilt and selfish pride.

Like all the rest, I left you – abandoned, if you fancy that word better – in the icy rain, with tears streaming from your emerald eyes.

Still, I cannot say I regret that war. From another perspective...it helped my own people birth the French Revolution. As gory and painful as that revolution was for me, I, in the end, needed it. Though, should I have left you to rot in misery when you needed consoling most? No. However, do recall you punished me tenfold soon after, by attacking my country and I during our weak point. You turned a devastating point in my life into Hell itself.

Let us not linger too much on that subject, however, for it gives me nightmares of guillotines and blood-slicked streets still. Positively, I imagine, your own...quarrel with America causes you stress at night as well.

I do not know whether America and you were really lovers, as some say, or brothers, as say others. I always saw you as having a father-son relationship with him, that developed into a close-knit friendship as he matured. Don't tell me if I'm wrong, s'il te plaît. I don't want to know. Either way, the parting between you two was, in some respects, a good thing. He can't fight with you like I can – he takes everything you say too seriously, always looking for a reason to dub himself the hero, and you the villain – and he wasn't great for your economy, overall.

Now, I'm not trying to abash America, or cripple your view of him, but sometimes you're a bit of a dolt and you don't differentiate between people who are good for you, and those who are bad for you. Not that I'm good for you, and not that America is necessarily bad for you, but if you think everything through, he's not very affectionate. Actually, he's rather oafish, with a brain too premature for much love interest and sexual desire. Don't take that the wrong way... I understand you're almost as hopelessly romantic as myself, so, if you do love America, that's okay. It's not like it's any of my business, oui?

I know you like to view me as a demon who plays on your delicate and I'm not sure you understand the playfulness of our squabbles like I do, but I never would try to hurt you out of anger. False hatred, which was really a desire for your attention, drew my urge to fight you for centuries. You still push me away.

I doubt you remember our childhood very well. You were young, and times were tough. Sometimes, I even wonder if I should bring Scotland to you, and show you his scar, so that you would recall some memories, but I know both of you would be too stubborn to agree. It hurts me inside, though, that you act as if I never went through so much pain and scrutiny for you. It tears me apart, like the claws of a ferocious beast, because you don't remember my secret...and maybe not even your own...

You're making me sound like a child again. The very sight of you often brings me back to those days: us, together, happy but denying we were happy. You would rant about your siblings as the night grew dark, and I would just listen, too afraid to speak of my own troubles. It took days of meditating on those issues, and the idea of confessing to them, before I finally was able to gather enough unstable courage to tell you what was wrong with me – what made me petrified of the dark, quick to flirt with strangers, and horrifically clingy to those considered my friends – and after I spilled my heart out...you...you still accepted me. You weren't angry, or disgusted, and you helped me.

Not that any of that matters! It's not like you remember, but I can rant senselessly if I want to! Who's to say I'm even sending this pathetic, ridiculously long letter? If I do, please thing that it's only to bother you. I'm just trying to convince you to marry me again, that's it. Alas, I'm only the country of love – oh, pardonne-moi, - the _whore_ country. I don't have feelings, just the urge to have sex with everything under the stars, right? This is how I've ended up in everyone's eyes. In your eyes?

…

...it was winter when I made the greatest mistake of my life. I realized how much I loved you.

Au revoir, et bien á toi,

-Francis


End file.
